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There is nothing better for a light MDMA hangover than a stroll by the river.

‘A spliff?’ countered my companion, Dirty South, channelling the wild wisdom of weeds.

I was happy to be corrected. There is nothing better for a light MDMA hangover than a stroll by the river and a massive little spliff. Particularly after work.

We had just completed a solid hour’s graft in Borough. We don’t record our podcast often, we acknowledge that. Why not? Well, to sum it up in three words: Pure laziness. But when we do, we like to unwind with a quality ale outside The Rake pub, enjoy a long lean on the bins provided for such purpose and consider our options and commitments.

After a brief discussion we had concluded that we had nothing in particular to do and had set off to the river to get on with it immediately. As devotees of the Deserter Way may already know, one of the wonderful things about having nothing in particular to do is that you never know what’s going to happen next. And so it was as we skinned up on the exposed foreshore of the Thames in the pale late afternoon sun, near Tate Modern.

We are often drawn to this special place, this ribbon of wilderness that lies at the heart of the city, offering unheralded views and unusual angles of the familiar. Right in the middle of it all and yet, at the same time, away from it all. Just how we like it. They can’t build their shit flats here, we like to think, though they’ve been doing their best to cover over the best bits with their shit bridges.

We breathed in the fresh riparian air. We breathed in the sweet-smelling smoke. We started to notice things.

I saw it first. I gave Dirty South a nudge and nodded my head in its direction.

‘Oooh,’ he said.

‘Isn’t it?’ I replied.

For there, nestled amongst the ragged stones, tiles and round-edged house bricks, sheltering beneath Blackfriars Railway Bridge, lay a familiar yellow orb, bright but forlorn, as if it knew it was lost, out of place.

It were only a bloody tennis ball.

Men, generally, are delighted by balls. Perhaps because we speak so much of it. And Dirty South and I are no different. Freeing the blessed globe from its watery resting place, we began kicking it to one another as we strolled along the shore; knocking it off a wall here or a post there; using the banked sands to curl inch-perfect passes. Once we almost lost it to the waters but Dirty South, with a gasp and a shriek, risked a wet foot to save it. Hero, plain and simple.

‘What shall we call him?’ asked Dirty South.

‘Simon?’ I offered, it being our go-to name for inanimate objects: A bifter, perhaps, Roxy’s hip flask, our shared Spotify playlist. But Dirty South didn’t look keen. I could see he was working on something. Something big.

‘Let’s call him… Bally,’ he said. And it was so right there was no point in further discussion. The man has an uncanny knack with words.

‘And let’s kick him all the way home,’ I said, my eyes now wild with delight. And possibly skunk.

‘Yes,’ said Dirty South. ‘To Wimbledon.’

‘Wimbledon,’ I breathed. ‘Of course.’

We passed the Oxo Tower and after several failed attempts (that might have forced lesser men to concede defeat) finally managed to flick-kick Bally up the steps at Gabriel’s Wharf. Having lain alone on the Thames shore for so long, we figured he would appreciate the people and lights of the Southbank. And how right we were. He was the belle of the ball as we booted him, now, along this handsome riverside boulevard, past the ITV building and the challenging multiple levels outside the National Theatre.

The early evening crowds were swelling and strangers joined in with our game, knocking Bally back to us or laying him off into our paths with a smile and a wave. We got the impression that some of the more skillful touches were performed by our European brethren and sistren, primed by years of tiki-taka. The more clumsy attempts to join in – by the shinners, the ball-treaders, the toe-stubbers – all seemed to be by English speakers, a sad indictment of something akin to our national game.

One man, sporting brogues and flamingo pink chinos and facing a firm pass from the Dirty One, simply froze in his tracks and watched as Bally bounced off his shoes. I will never forget the withering look he received from his girlfriend, who had clearly seen this unforgivable side to him for the first time.

‘I give it a month,’ I said to him, not without sadness. One’s approach to street football defines one. She knew that, and he’d just defined himself out of a relationship.

Heading now to Hungerford Bridge we approached pop-up beer-stop, The Hop Locker.

‘I wonder if Bally might be thirsty,’ said Dirty South, and we stopped to try their mighty Simcoe Pale Ale, a collaboration brew with Norway’s Lervig brewery.

‘Hello. Do you serve men with balls?’ I enquired of the barman.

‘I expect so, mostly,’ he said.

‘Excellent. Three pints of the Simcoe then, please,’ I said, and we flicked Bally up onto a table to people watch in the fading light.

One of London’s finest viewing spots is the fifth floor balcony of the Royal Festival Hall and it was here the three of us headed next, keen as we were to show Bally some sights before home time.

When you’ve a ball on the crew, you are only ever the discovery of a ‘natural goal’ away from a quick game of three and in and we paused at the external lift doors – which offered the perfect goal and excellent lighting – for some light exercise in order to build a thirst.

At the RFH bar we were presented with the choice of Theakston’s, cider or 21 taps of Red Stripe. I went for a cider, Dirty South had a Theakston’s and Bally surprised us both with a large rum, ice no mixer. What a character!

Upstairs we gazed across London for a while and then took a table on the balcony next to some young women. Who can say who was first attracted to whom, but very soon we were all chatting and when they heard about Bally’s evening they were thrilled to take some selfies with him, which he seemed to enjoy.

A quick look at Google Maps told us that Wimbledon was still, somehow, a two and a half hour walk away. We decided that it might make better sense, given the hour, if we escorted Bally onto a train at Waterloo instead.

‘I wonder if Bally might be hungry?’ said Dirty South, as we rolled him down six flights of stairs and across the busy lobby.

‘Very good point,’ I replied, admiring his thoughtfulness and sensitivity to the needs of others.

Ordinarily, Dirty South and I might treat ourselves to a budget-conscious cheese egg burger at Waterloo Grill after an evening out, but Bally had other ideas. On the way to the station he took an unexpected ricochet off a parked car and settled onto the terrace of upmarket grill bar, Black & Blue.

‘I think he wants a steak dinner,’ I said.

‘Well, it is his night,’ said Dirty South, and we chipped him through the restaurant door, leaving the hurly burly of the traffic behind.

‘Table for three, please,’ I said.

‘Certainly, gentlemen. I like your ball,’ said the maitre d’, making us fall in love with her. We told her his story and she laid Bally a place at the table and brought him a napkin.

The three of us tucked into a côte de boeuf and shared a powerful bottle of red before heading up the steps into the bright lights of Waterloo Station. At the ticket barrier for the Wimbledon train we found a good man who agreed to take charge of Bally and ensure he alighted safely at Wimbledon.

‘It would be an absolute fucking honour, boys,’ he said, and we waved them both off.

Feeling a little emotional, we decided a pick-me-up might be in order and headed round to Penny, the late night bar beneath the Old Vic. Penny may pass muster as a cafe (which it is in the daytime) but as a dive bar it’s a bit short on atmosphere. We do end up there a lot, though. Mainly because it’s so, you know, open.

There we raised a glass of continental lager to our dear, departed friend. We’d given a tennis ball probably the best night of his life, and in the process had had one of our own.

It made me realise that, really, all you need for a wonderful evening out is a humble ball, man’s best friend. Plus a mate, to be fair. Perhaps some beer. Nice food. Spliff. Girls. London.

But apart from that, nothing. Except maybe a fat dab of molly.

Pub Quiz 1
Cheltenham Festival at the Blythe and in Margate
Yorkshire Gout Club
Ruskin Park Gout Club
Good Liver
Skehans Theatre
Soho Curry Night
“There we are then”
World Cup at Bar Italia vs the Blythe
Dead Pub Crawl
Pub & Beer news
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Pub Quiz 2
AI Balls
Bum Dosser
Have you seen the Social media Scene?

It would be lovely to think that our time on this mortal coil was followed by an eternity of amorphous wafting about in a sea of euphoric bliss, untroubled by council tax, wasps or Noel Edmonds.

We don’t like to think of the end as the end. We always want a sequel, despite Sharknado 2. However, the fact is, when it’s over, it’s over. We’re not going to be able to hold or taste a pint again. Or, I suppose, gaze on our loved ones.

Not that any version of heaven has ever sounded appealing. A place filled with the righteous and holy? Harps and Gregorian chants? Virgins? Who wants to be surrounded by dozens of people on clouds who are shit in bed?

As Britain has become more secular and less superstitious, fewer people believe in an afterlife. But there was a time, just after the First World War, when spiritualism gripped the nation. Some people had lost whole families and were desperate to be able to say their goodbyes or at least find out where the brandy was hidden.

And one South London soul was at the centre of attempts to prove or disprove contact with the beyond.

Harry Price (1881-1948)

Raised in New Cross, Britain’s go-to ghost guy was an accomplished conjuror before he became a global celebrity exposing fraudulent mediums. His skepticism brought him the friendship of Harry Houdini, while a later volte-face attracted afterlife-believer Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. By 2015, he had landed an ITV Christmas drama, Harry Price: Ghost Hunter.

Any alleged haunting, practising medium, or spirit photographer, could expect a pseudo-scientific examination from Price and subsequent national exposure. The dead were all the rage. The Daily Sketch published a photo of what it claimed were genuine spirits at the Cenotaph, for example, until someone pointed out that some of the images were of players from the England football team. As Price’s excellent biographer, Richard Morris said: ‘They were a little slow in defence and torpid in attack, but they were still breathing.’

While he gained fame exposing the tricks of the spiritualist trade, Price had a finger in every psychical research pie going. He performed a black magic attempt to transform a goat into a man, which involved rubbing shoe polish onto the breasts of an actress. History didn’t record Gloria Gordon’s reaction, but the goat remained unmoved.

One of his investigations concluded that there was insufficient evidence of the existence of Gef, a multi-lingual talking mongoose who lived on the Isle of Man and was partial to cream buns. Gef was quoted as saying he did not like Price in the slightest, so we’ll call that one a draw.

He witnessed mediums claiming to make telepathic contact with people on Mars, including chats with a civilised giant, a bushman and a Martian very upset that his pet donkey had died. Yet every mad incident only served to make him more famous.

While Price made his name uncovering hoaxers, he was prepared to play both sides, being a skeptic when it suited and the opposite when he wanted to be mates with Sherlock Holmes or achieve some other advantage. As Morris put it: ‘It is hilarious that this man who did not seem to have a clue about what he was doing, duped the majority of his colleagues, the public, journalists and some of the greatest minds of the day with his po-faced seriousness.’ Hats off, Harry. It beat working.

Victorian Séance Parlours

The first wave of spiritualism in Britain came in Victorian times, imported from America, where, in New York, the Fox sisters were able to convince people that the sound of knocking was that of a long dead spirit. Plenty were willing to believe in ghosts making noises, shaking tables and throwing objects about, like all death did was make you invisible, but clumsy.

Alan Williams’ skilful 2013 Gothic novel, The Blackheath Séance Parlour reflects the fascination and revulsion with psychic phenomena in the 1840s as well as capturing the occasionally eerie nature of the heath. Should it merit a literary tour in the future though, frequent mentions of the Hare & Billet (where some of it was written), The Crown and the Princess of Wales will make it worthwhile, along with the Trafalgar Tavern in Greenwich and the Lamb & Flag in Covent Garden, all of which still serve the living. My favourite boozey scene though was in Nunhead Cemetery, where the main characters, Maggie, Judy and Netta, managed to get locked in after hours, so they could get loose on absinthe and watch the ghosts come out. It’s an idea that deserves official sanction.

The Half-terlife

Even in 2016 you can find psychics and mediums in South London who claim to be able to read your aura, predict your future and communicate with the ‘other side’ (and I don’t think they mean North London). However, the Deserter clairvoyant budget was wiped out by the hospitality overspend, so we had to rely on Half-life to provide someone that he met in the pub who ‘had the gift’, and would conduct a séance in return for some stolen prosciutto. This is a vague transcript of that night.

Present: Me, Roxy, Half-life and a Man Called Alice.

Amid candlelight and funny smells, Alice closes his eyes and concentrates. After about five minutes of eyebrow play and disturbing pouting, Alice speaks: ‘I’m seeing a house. A house with a door. Does anyone here know someone who lives in a house with a door?’ I don’t even need to look at Roxy to know she is rolling her eyes and swearing inside. It’s like I’m the psychic. Then Alice’s voice becomes altered. ‘It’s round,’ he says.

‘A round door?’ Half-life asks, incredulously.

‘You are round,’ says Alice, his voice becoming less like his own. Hardly, I think. I’ve seen more fat on a butcher’s pencil. ‘You’re round,’ bellows Alice.

My mind picks up Roxy thinking, ‘Waste of fucking drinking time.’

Then in a broad Lancastrian accent Alice shouts: ‘It’s your focking round, Half-life!’

‘Cousin Jimmy!’ says Half-life excitedly.

Alice’s own voice returns as he addresses Half-life. ‘Is there anything you’d like to ask Jimmy?’

‘Fuck, yeah. This is the chance of a lifetime,’ says Half-life. ‘Here, Jimmy. Who’s going to win the 2.30 at Southwell on Thursday?’

‘I’m on My Tringaling,’ says Jimmy via Alice.

‘Wait,’ says Roxy. ‘You’ve got bookies over there?’

‘Not even bookies live forever,’ says Alice, by now tucking into his ham.

Which, as Half-life pointed out as I bought him a pint to calm his paranormally upset nerves, is worth noting. If we are expected to continue our occupation in the hereafter, we had all better get on with retiring.

Further Reading:
Harry Price: The Psychic Detective by Richard Morris
The Blackheath Séance Parlour by Alan Williams

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While eating a leisurely breakfast earlier this week (kidneys on toast, since you ask) I received a phone call. It was Deserter girlfriend, Roxy.

‘Dirty South says you’re doing one of your… bits on Crystal Palace’, she said.

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m going to the Palace game tonight if you fancy hooking up for a pre-match tipple.’

‘Sure, what time are you thinking?’

‘One-ish?’ she said.

One-o-clock. That was a seven hour pre-match ‘tipple’. On a Monday. That’s what makes Roxy special.

‘OK, see you on the Hill, Rox,’ I said, and returned to my offal.

Yes, the Hill. For where five boroughs collide, where Kent nudges Surrey and Surrey tells it to stop messing about, hidden up in the clouds, high above the big city bustle, there lies a mountain kingdom.

Once it was known as Upper Norwood (a reference to the Great North Wood, of which ‘Norwood’ is a contraction) but about 160 years ago North London decided it was bored with some giant iron and glass exhibition centre it had built in Hyde Park and decreed that it be moved. So in 1854 the entire shebang was shunted to Upper Norwood, like a barbeque being taken up the end of the garden for the winter, to keep it out of sight.

The reconstructed ‘Crystal Palace’ was for a while a major draw in the south. Two train stations were built to serve it, villas sprang up all around and Queen Victoria even stopped by for a gander. Upper Norwood was well and truly on the map.

Except it wasn’t, because now everybody called it Crystal Palace, the idiots.

‘How dare they fob us off with a fucking great second-hand greenhouse,’ said Half-life, whom I met in the café at the surviving ‘lower’ station. ‘And I bet it was full of toffs. I would have torched the place.’

Funny that, because after years of decline and a valiant attempt at rejuvenation, for one night only, in 1936, the Crystal Palace once again became South London’s biggest attraction, as 100,000 people turned out on Sydenham Hill to watch it burn to the ground.

But despite the rise and fall of the palace itself, the area has managed to maintain an independent spirit and sense of community. I put this down to a number of things physical, psychological and socio-economic.

Firstly, the hill-top location imbues Crystal Palace with something like an island mentality. Before the invention of the combustion engine, if you didn’t really need to slog it all the way up to Upper Norwood then you would have been content to buy your logs, jerkins, manure, etc, in nearby Forest Hill or Penge. The hills are such that if even your horse got wind that you were going up that way, it would have given you one of those miserable glassy-eyed stares in which they specialise.

Couple that with the absence of the tube and central railway stations (both Gipsy Hill and Crystal Palace stations are situated halfway down steep hills), add its unusual three-sided commercial area – the ‘Triangle’ – into the mix, and you find a tight-knit social scene that not only embraces the unusual but is also resistant to the march of commercial homogenisation. (McDonalds famously closed down a few years back, due to lack of local interest.)

Psychologically, as a visitor, just glimpsing those exhilarating views of the city from between buildings on Westow Hill makes you feel like a king. Imagine what it must be like to see them every day. ‘I’m not coming into work today, for I am the Master of the Universe’.

And the perceived lack of transport (actually the buses are great) has, at least until recently, kept rents and house prices at more affordable levels, meaning that Crystal Palace has been filled with younger, singler people, which always adds to the fun.

I mentioned this to Half-life.

‘Well, let’s go and fucking find them, then,’ he said, handing me the bill.

Green

From the station, we made our way through Crystal Palace Park, up to where the palace itself once stood. There we found Roxy and Deserter colleague, Dirty South, already installed on a bench, smoking a suspiciously long roll-up.

‘Alright, Rox,’ said Half-life.

‘Alright, Half-pint,’ said Roxy, which she’s called him ever since he made the grievous error of buying her a half instead of a pint, ten years ago.

From this vantage point it is easy to see why Crystal Palace Park has already featured in our best places to pause and seek deep philosophical certainty. It’s not only one of the best spots in London for the taking of the herb, it’s also 19th in the world, just behind Victoria Falls and one ahead of the Edinburgh Military Tattoo.

It’s not just about the sheer size of it (200 acres), it’s also the amazing views that stretch out for miles across Kent and Surrey. Not to mention the life-size dinosaur models, the lakes, the maze and the ruined splendour of Sir Joseph Paxton’s original vision for the park; around every corner is a sphinx, a ghostly flight of steps or a headless statue to freak you right out.

There has been talk of rebuilding the Crystal Palace, but we’re unconvinced. The new one would be bound to feature a 20-screen megaplex and South London’s biggest Nando’s. But we’re happy to review the plans. Just drop us an email.

Best Café

The café in the very grand Crystal Palace station, where I met Half-life, is called Brown & Green and is that rare beast in London, a decent café in a station, even if they do have some novel additions to the classics.

‘Would you like rocket in your bacon butty?’ asked the charming girl at the counter and Half-life gave her a look that could chill humours, shatter dreams and wither youth.

The toilets are an issue too, being the other side of the ticket barrier, down steps, round corners and halfway down one of the platforms. As Half-life said on returning from a caffeine-induced evacuation, ‘One wrong turn and you’re on a train to Sutton.’ And no-one wants to go to Sutton.

Another cracking café is St Germain on Crystal Palace Parade. Authentically decked out as a Parisian café, it’s got a great covered front terrace, from which you can view the Eiffel Tower-like Crystal Palace transmitting station while cupping un chocolat chaud.

‘If you squint, it could be Crystal Paris,’ I said.

‘Please tell me you’re not going to write that,’ said Roxy.

But my favourite café – and not just because it’s licensed – is Café Thing. Linked to Antenna Studios (rehearsals, recording, dance, photography), it is tucked round the back of Haynes Lane where there is a weekly food and antiques market. Consequently it’s the busiest café in town on a Saturday but one of the quietest in the week (Weds-Fri), and you can sit undisturbed as you piss about with email and try not to order a brandy with your Volcano-roasted coffee.

I should also give a mention to Living Water Satisfies on Westow St, not because we liked it (we didn’t go in) but because Half-life took exception to the name and is considering suing for breach of the Trade Descriptions Act.

Shopping

Plenty of individual shops and a relative lack of chain stores reflect the independent spirit of the area – places like Bookseller Crow, the Good Taste deli and MacDonald’s hardware store are all much-loved local institutions.

But if you were forced to say what Crystal Palace is known for, in particular, you’d have to say antiques and vintage shops.

Five or ten years ago you might have called the clutch of second-hand places on Church Road junk shops. Now they’ve morphed into decent vintage and antique shops to complement the wonderful indoor market on Haynes Lane and Crystal Palace Vintage on Westow Street

‘It’s quiet in the week, but from Thursday onwards Church Road has become a real attraction in itself,’ said Jim from the Tractor Factory, which does bespoke furniture as well as antiques.

One of the bigger places, Bambinos, now has a vinyl shop in the basement and, as you’d expect, it’s much better value than anywhere in Soho.

To be honest, after Half-life recently forced me to carry a side-board up and down Lordship Lane, we tried to keep him out these places. Later, though, when he went AWOL, we eventually found him in the daddy of them all, the Crystal Palace Antiques Warehouse, a four-floor furniture emporium just off Westow Hill. It turned out he’d gone down to the basement, taken a seat in a classic mid-century Scandinavian sofa to roll a joint and promptly fallen asleep, which is pretty impressive given that he’d only got up at noon.

Best Food

Crystal Palace Food Market on Haynes Lane, Saturdays 10-3pm, is a community ‘not-for-profit’ market, which doesn’t necessarily mean it’s cheap, sadly, but whether you’re buying bread, cheese, fish or meat, it is consistently excellent. Plus there’s food to eat on the spot and beer from the heavenly Late Knights brewery. It’s my pick.

I’ve never eaten in Joanna’s but it certainly has a devoted following. Roxy said it was a bit up itself, though, so we spurned it in favour of new kid on the block, Crystal Palace Market on Church Road. It is not so much a restaurant, apparently, as a ‘culinary concept’- a place where you can buy locally-sourced produce to take home or eat on the spot. It looks remarkably stylish and has been reassuringly busy whenever I’ve passed but unfortunately it was closed for ‘general cleaning’ when we turned up – which we weren’t sure was a good thing or a bad thing – so we ate at Casa Cuba instead, where we ordered bloody great rib-eye steaks for half-price (£9 a pop) using my trusty Tastecard. It’s not that I’m cheap, I just crave value. And if that makes me cheap, then yes, I am cheap, despite my earlier protestation.

We didn’t have time to try anywhere else as we were worried about Roxy getting to the game and we only had five hours left in which to research our favourite category.

Best Pub

Finally.

For the views we liked The Royal Albert, where from the tables outside you can squeeze out a view over the city. But we didn’t like the beer.

For beer we liked The Grape and Grain which offered a superb array of fine ales and ciders, and does great music nights to boot. On the downside, there is no longer a discount for CAMRA members and, it being a big old gaff, it didn’t feel terribly homely.

For homely, we liked the Railway Bell, a small, unreconstructed backstreet boozer in what might actually be Gipsy Hill, but hey, we’re not Google Maps, we’re drunk.

Was there a pub, we wondered, that could combine all the above? Yes, there was.

In fact, there were two.

Westow House is everything you’d expect from an Antic pub, beautifully turned out with kooky touches (pinball, candles, vintage furniture) and well-kept beer. It’s in a great spot by the park and was pleasantly full in the late afternoon.

But in a complex marking system which involved 19 categories, marks out of 11, plenty of shouting and Half-life’s dark animal instinct, it was just edged out by The White Hart, on the southern most tip of the Triangle.

The signs don’t look great from the outside – it’s on a noisy, busy junction – but as soon as you step through its portals you are welcomed into a warm pubby bosom, and then, in a magical reversal, its position gives you a vista of a risibly busy world rushing about all over the place while you sit at the window, sipping drinks personally recommended by the friendly bar staff (thank you, Ali).

It also the only pub I know that has a vintage clothes shop and a milliner within its walls.

One to watch

Crystal Palace’s other railway station, Crystal Palace (High Level) was finally demolished in 1961. But beneath Crystal Palace Parade there remains a majestic 19th Century fan-vaulted pedestrian subway that once linked the railway station with the Crystal Palace in the park on the other side of the road.

The Friends of Crystal Palace Subway is lobbying Southwark and Bromley councils to re-open the subway, now a listed building, and has already gained permission to install new gates and handrails.

More power to them.

And Dirty South says can it have a little bar in it?

Talking of bars, we waved Roxy off in a cab to the match, decanted Half-life onto a train at Gipsy Hill, and retired to the brilliant Beer Rebellion opposite to compare notes.

Some time before closing we got a text from Roxy: ‘Lost 3-1, but the crowd sang “He’s Gus Poyet, he shits on the floor,” so going home smiling xx’*

Update Nov 2018: The glorious Beer Rebellion has shut up shop at Gipsy Hill. The bar will be reborn under the auspices of Herne Hill’s Bullfinch Brewery though, so we should be alright. And it is with great sadness that we report the Grape & Grain has closed down after decades of distinguished service. However, the triangle welcomes three pubs to soften the blow, the Walker Briggs (Antic), the Faber Fox (top garden) and the Sparrowhawk (posh nosh). If the pub is endangered, no one told Crystal Palace.

I don’t need to tell Deserter readers how tragic it is to lose your local pub. London has lost nearly 1000 pubs since 2004 and, as we have previously reported, every time a pub closes, God kills a kitten.

The closure of the White Swan in 2020 hit Charlton Village particularly hard. It was the epitome of a pub as a community hub. And it’s become the victim of rapacious property developers, Mendoza, who are based in the Isle of Man and have been linked to 29 pub closures in the capital. They might be an overseas entity, but if the price is right, they love to come to the mainland and ruin fun.

Mendoza appears to be linked to Criterion Capital, the billionaire businessman Asif Aziz’s company – the man dubbed Britain’s meanest landlord, a one-man plague on the capital who is currently threatening the iconic Prince Charles Cinema as well.

But the good burghers of Charlton aren’t taking the closure of the Swan lying down. They’ve banded together and formed the White Swan Music and Arts charity to crowdsource enough money to buy it from the current owners and open it as a pub and music and arts venue.

They’re kicking off their crowdfunder today (Dec 3rd) with a brilliant music video – and I’m saying that despite me being in it, not because I’m in it – directed by Tim King and filmed by Sidney Andrelino. They have a hugely capable campaign team who are putting in the hard yards to resist the tide of greed that is putting profit before people throughout the land. And they have a committed community behind them

They aim to raise £360,000 to put a deposit down on the property before looking to other means – loans, grants, etc – to buy the property outright and restore it from its currently run down state.

They’re done their homework, and consequently are looking to buy it rather than rent it. Mendoza own several pubs in London that they have allowed to remain open, like The Glad in Borough, but who will always struggle because they have a landlord who wants them to fail, so they can be turned into flats. The Duke of Greenwich recently closed because of unreasonable rent demands, despite their putting their heart and soul into making it a great pub. Mendoza don’t care about pubs, which might seem odd when they keep buying them. But they buy them to close them and cash in. They charge too much rent then claim they cannot be profitable and should therefore become flats. Some councils are gullible enough to let them convert.

Fortunately they have been refused permission to turn the Swan into a supermarket with flats above. So now locals have an opportunity to persuade them to sell it to people who care.

At a pre-launch event residents spoke of what’s been lost. An 18-year-old woman movingly told us of the likelihood that she would never be able to afford a place with a living room and a garden. The Swan was her living room and garden. She had her third birthday party there. It was where she had Sunday lunches with her parents.

Glenn Tilbrook, of Squeeze, spoke of how music venues like the Swan launch music careers like his own: ‘The first gig that myself and Jools Holland got was playing in the Morden Arms in Greenwich. We soon had a residency there and started getting gigs in other pubs, gradually. It helped us to find ourselves. Places like this are vital for young musicians to learn their craft, playing to friends and neighbours. I hope that The White Swan will be able to host another generation of musicians soon.’

One plan is to use the first floor for studio space, for musicians, artists, podcasters, whatever. Hopefully bands will move downstairs to entertain an audience.

Chair of the campaign, Suzanne Hunt said: ‘The White Swan has been closed now for five years. To me, it’s more than just a pub; it’s where my family celebrated landmark anniversaries or simply where we could gather for Sunday lunch. Our plan is to restore the pub and live music venue, but also do more by investing any profits to enable young people access to the arts and provide a space for our wider community. The White Swan should be where you walk up to the bar as a stranger but walk out as a friend.’

My own relationship with the Swan dates back to the ’90s when I lived in Charlton. It was my scruffy old local where I made friends with a cast of oddballs who were not so much regulars as ever presents. But it also was the preferred pre-match pub for many friends and family going to The Valley. 30 years ago I’d take my daughter there for crisps and coke before games, meeting my brother and his three kids there. Years later, I’d take my son to tear around the beer garden and play table football before visiting the sweet and reptile shops. (Those are two separate entities, by the way). The Swan before and after matches was a family ritual.

When Geoff Keen (Pelton Arms) took over the pub, he turned it from a somewhat shabby local into the heart of Charlton. Good food, great ale, nice staff and fab events, including beer festivals and being among the venues of the Charlton and Woolwich Free Film Festival. Me and Raider appeared twice there, screening Withnail and I and Life of Brian. It might have been three times, but who can really know for sure?

I wrote about it in 2016 when we thought it had been saved. The ‘Brian’ in the story was actually me. I got the call that my Mum had died (not unexpectedly). I went to the Swan to have a pint to take in the news. Geoff popped in. He asked me how I was doing, like he normally would. I had to tell him what had happened. You can’t just say: ‘I’m good, mate. You?’ when you’ve just lost a parent, even if it’s not very British to respond with sincerity. He told me he was sorry and immediately got me a pint on the house. No other business is going to try and give you comfort like that. That is what only pubs do. That is what is lost when pubs close. Where else do people meet up? Where else do people ask how you are? Pubs are the cement to our bricks. Without them, communities are just buildings; people just economic units. A billionaire wouldn’t understand. Their talents are in making money. I almost feel sorry for them.

To donate, please visit the charity’s crowdfunder.

Some may wonder what the big deal is, when a pub is saved. Isn’t it just a room with booze? Just another business concern that saves us walking to the next one?

Well, in the interest of science, Half-life and I spent an aftern-evening at the White Swan in Charlton Village, one of South London’s recently saved pubs, to find out. No, don’t call us heroes. Save that accolade for our nurses, teachers and actual brewers.

Like most pubs between Waterloo and Woolwich, there was someone in the Swan who knew Half-life. His middle-aged face lit up when Half-life’s gargantuan frame bundled through the door dressed as a Confederate cavalry officer, exclaiming loudly: ‘So I said, “You call that a sabre? This is a fucking sabre, pal.”’

‘Half-life!’ greeted the man at the bar.

‘Oh, fuck,’ said Half-life, not quite under his breath, before introducing us. ‘Dirty, this is Benny.’

‘Brian.’

‘This is Brian.’

‘Good to see you, old mate,’ enthused Brian, unperturbed. ‘How the devil are you?’

20 regrettable minutes later, Half-life ended his fierce monologue on why he should be allowed to sign on by text with an unusually considerate: ‘And you?‘

‘Fine, fine, great,’ wittered Brian. ‘Ah, to tell the truth… well, my mum died this morning.’

‘Oh, don’t tell me that,’ said Half-life, crossly. ‘Listen, I know how you feel. And out of respect for you, I don’t want to talk about it, OK?’

The landlord, who barely knew the bereaved Brian, gave him a pint on the house. That is a pub, that is. You wouldn’t get that from any other business. Your pharmacist isn’t going to hand over some Preparation H and whisper, ‘It’s on me.’ Nor is your butcher going to slip you some chops in deepest sympathy. Brian definitely left feeling better than when he arrived. That is what has been saved.

Half-life was so impressed, he revived his long-dead father to try and blag a pint in various hostelries on the way home. That resulted in a barman at the Old King’s Head being called a ‘heartless Kiwi bastard’ and a free pint at The Libertine provided he left immediately afterwards.

While still at the Swan, a local couple popped in with their elderly greyhound who dozed on the floor, and was studiously watched over by a French bulldog. Half-life berated the owner for calling a Gallic dog Winston, but it didn’t stop him licking his face. Winston didn’t seem to mind though.

The staff put on music that was twice as old as they were but was stylistically broad and refreshing. ‘If I put on music from my lifetime, I’d have to kill myself,’ a barman-whippersnapper said.

At the weekends there is pretty damn good live music, plus occasional rare groove and Northern Soul vinyl nights. The locals don’t know what to do with their good fortune after decades of shabby boozers in a London village that looked in terminal decline. The primary response has been to come to their local, instead of going to Greenwich or Blackheath, to have a lovely big pint.

Providing somewhere decent to eat while simultaneously sitting down also proved to be an innovation for a takeaway part of town. The roasts receive rave reviews and later on Sundays they put out an excellent cheeseboard that you can just help yourself to, like you might at home, if you ever had anything decent in the fridge. There are lunch boxes (a packed lunch in a box with activities) and colouring books for kids, so you have an outside chance of being able to finish your pint and (v good) burger without being pestered to go home to an unpublic house.

Despite having been firmly asked to leave in the afternoon, the DVD lady snuck back in later and approached us by the smoking barrel in the beer garden, offering baccy and shit films.

‘No, no.’ I sighed, waving her away, unfortunately into the path of Half-life. I was surprised to see an exchange take place. So he did have a wallet. ‘You! Paying money for a movie?’

‘Fuck off. I got six Viagra. It’s the 24 hour NHS, mate.’

‘How do you know what’s in them?’

‘Well, they’re blue.’

‘They could be anything.’

‘Are you fucking deaf? I told you, they are blue.’

This was a new level of pub shopping. But along with the company, most people come for the beer. The house ale is from Hop Stuff, brewed not four miles away in the Woolwich Arsenal. Their APA makes a fine sessioner. The Swan has already hosted one beer festival and a Discover Cask Weekend. There are regular Monday Club offers with selected ales at £3 a pint. It’s almost like they want people to visit, stay a while and come back.

On the other hand, we could have had some nice modern flats. Some nice modern flats and one less place for people to meet, grumble, laugh, share, overshare and buy each other tokens of affection in pint glasses.

For two South London bloggers to become authors was pretty special, proving that teachers and ex-girlfriends’ parents are not always correct about lazy-arsed, good-for-nothing slackers.

But for those very same bloggers to also become brewers of a delicious nectar – Deserter IPA – shows dreams really can turn into pints.

That nectar will once again be available from early November to celebrate the publication of Today South London, Tomorrow South London, itself a celebration of South London, pubs, daydreams, wanders, chips, friends, naps, giggles and meat sweats.

You’ll find the book in good book shops and online this week – later than planned, as seasoned observers may have expected. And you’ll find the beer in Southey Brewing’s bars; the Brighton, Dulwich and London Beer Dispensarys, along with Southey’s Penge taproom, where happiness awaits.

But how did this dream become reality? Surely only wizards can turn water into beer? Correct. However, one spring day in 2015 we had the best meeting ever, with brewery-allies Late Knights (ancestors of Southey Brewing), who agreed to hand us over to their chief wizard Sam Barber to talk about, concoct and eventually drink our own beer.

The result was a golden IPA with some American hop magic and a massive party at the LBD to celebrate a year of Deserter with like-minded folk.

The first couple of kegs disappeared in minutes as we met readers from near and far. Though, to be fair, they were free.

Further casks were tapped, even the ones that were waiting to settle in the cellar. Nobody seemed to care about the murk. They just wanted the high.

The all-day breakfast IPA helped forge friendships and fuzz memory. It was a night few would forget. Or remember.

That winter Sam suggested we brew a Black IPA and do it all again. The result was None More Black, a moreish, yet powerful dark beer that had its debut at Beer Rebellion in Peckham. It was another simply magical night. I seem to recall a man at the bar being happily covered in clingfilm from head to foot by his mates. There was mischief in that there ale.

And now, with pre-orders of the book setting our publishers scrambling to print more, it seemed only right to return to SE20 and bring back that wondrous IPA. Also, we had committed to providing several pledgers with cases of the stuff, so we were legally and morally obliged to go the brewery.

Southey’s equipment had been upgraded massively. To use the technical terms, it was now large and shiny. Sam had also developed as a brewer, being mentored by Phil Gadd from The Ramsgate Brewery with his huge experience of slaking Kentish thirsts. Me and the Raider used our heft to hump bags of malt and buckets of hops into the metal thing when told to by the wizard.

And you’ll be able to drink the result at our book launch on November 1st at the Dulwich Beer Dispensary from 7.30pm and elsewhere after that till it runs out.

But that’s not all, we’re talking to Sam about a Christmas special again. No, not None More Black, but an Imperial IPA. A super-hopped, dizzy-strong delectation to take to your favourite park bench and dream the afternoon away – working title: Deserter Gamechanger DIPA. Stay tuned.

• Pub Quiz 1

• Book shenanigans

• Gig nights

• In praise of Wednesdays

• Crisp Pairing Night

• Health updates

• Pub & Beer News

• Coming up at the Shirker’s

• Crisp News

• Drug News

• Other News

• Pub Quiz 2

• Readers’ Letters

• Book Corner: Croydonopolis

• Bum Dosser

• Social Media Sea

The day a new book is published is a proud moment for any author. It’s like a child being born into the world. A child you have worried over, cared for, guided, grown frustrated at, and eventually, after months of labour, set free to stand on its own two feet, to be judged, loved, puzzled over, and hopefully not passed on to friends because you, ‘Couldn’t get on with it.’

Buy now!

The compulsion to create is similar to the need to procreate. Both often end with a satisfying cigarette and a sense that you couldn’t do that again in a hurry.

But now we’re serious writers, we see a double meaning in ‘Pub Day’ that might have been hidden from us when we were mere bloggers. Who are we kidding? Any sentence with the word ‘pub’ in it is an invitation to say ‘Let’s go!’ We can, we should, we will go to the pub on Pub Day. Right after we have wrapped up our appearance at Chener Books, as part of the South East London Bookfest, where we will read from and talk about Deserter Stories; what it is, how it came about and what lovely things people have been saying about our collection of short stories.

The Bookfest heralds the start of our World Tour (of South London) that sees us take in six more venues to proudly show off our baby, meet our readers and hopefully flog a few books so that we don’t find it still hanging around the house in 30 years’ time, as so many parents do now.

Many of you who have pre-ordered will have received yours by now as, in a most uncharacteristic display of competence, we managed to get the thing done and dusted on time. It looks beautiful, thanks to Emily Power’s artwork. You can read it, thanks to Ian Buck’s typesetting and advice. And you can find it pretty much anywhere, thanks to Chris Towndrow (of Valericain Press) and his kind offer to help with distribution.

Order the book online now, and you can also find Deserter Stories in the following bookshops, among others:

• Beckenham Bookshop

• Blackheath Bookshop

• The Bookseller Crow

• Chener Books

• Herne Hill Books

• London Review Bookshop

• Review

• Rye Books

• The Riverside Bookshop

• Waterstones - Greenwich

The soon-to-open Greenwich Gallery will also stock the book, as will The Shirker’s Rest.

It will also be available online at Bookshop, Waterstones, The Guardian Bookshop, The Mail Bookshop, Hive, TGJones and, we suppose, Amazon.

We hope you enjoy our baby as much as we will enjoy Pub Day!

Buy now, again!

‘If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

We’ve all said it when a pal is in need. Sometimes we’ve even meant it. But when an old friend has her husband in hospital, elderly parents, three kids and a high pressure job, you’re reluctant to add: ‘Apart from look after that mardy fucking tweenager of yours.’

Worse, when that very request came one morning, I was on a Code Red hangover, having been out celebrating Half-life’s dropped charges for outraging public decency.

I had to help her out, but I thought, OK, I can dust off the Xbox and leave him to it until Four Quarters opens. Then, he can play Time Crisis while I score pint points at the bar.

‘One thing,’ whispered Lucy. ‘No gaming. He’s serving a ban. Maybe show him some culture, while we’re in London. A bit of history maybe.’

Gulp. I’m really not that sort of friend, I thought to myself, scrambling for alternative activities.

‘Sorry to hear about your Dad, Theo,’ I ventured.

I got a shrug, which was Theo reaching out. Reaching out for silence.

I had a bright idea. I remembered a pub in West Norwood that had a micro-pig in its beer garden. That would be fun for a 12-year-old, wouldn’t it?

He looked at me like I had just sneezed in his hair.

I fell on the local failsafe: Greenwich Park. Can’t go wrong. Except that it was sweltering and we were joined there by the world and her husband. Theo kind of took in the panorama, and even nodded slightly, but mostly, I think, he appreciated my shutting up and sparing him the details of the history before us.

This simply couldn’t go on. I was hurting and had a jones for a hair of the doggo. Never mind him, I couldn’t take a museum. Then it came to me.

‘This way!’

We marched West towards Royal Hill where the Prince of Greenwich was just opening.

‘Are you taking me to a pub?’ he moaned, the little twat.

‘A museum,’ I said. ‘A museum-slash-pub.’

The Prince is run by Pietro La Rosa, a Sicilian who has not only brought Italian hospitality and splendid Italian food to SE10, but opened a pub full of curios that he and his wife Paola have collected from their travels around the world. An enormous whale’s jaw bone hangs over various objets d’arts, a rhinoceros’ head protrudes above an antique barber’s chair, surrounded by artwork from afar.

‘It’s mad,’ concluded Theo.

Pietro is more like a host than a landlord, greeting us warmly, like returning family, even though I’ve only been in a couple of times. If you happen to have a small child with you, they’ll be treated like royalty, just like in Sicily and unlike the inconvenience they appear to be to a lot of publicans.

‘It’s not really history though, is it?’ said Theo.

Critical little fucker, aren’t you? I said, in my mind.

‘History, you’re after, is it?’ I replied. ‘Then follow me.’

The bus to Bermondsey gave Theo the opportunity to pop on his headphones and me to do one of my favourite things: Staring out of windows. To paraphrase Shakespeare – to catch the 188, perchance to dream.

There’s tons of history in Bermondsey, but I needed something by a pub, so both of us could have a stake in proceedings.

I chose the ruins of King Edward III’s manor house, not aesthetically impressive, admittedly, but next to The Angel, the riverside Sam Smith’s pub we have covered before.

‘Is this it?’ bleated Theo. ‘A bit of wall.’

‘It’s bona fide history that is,’ I said, hydrating with a little pint. ‘Built in 1350 for King Edward III. Get your tiny head round that.’

‘Well who the fuck was he?’

‘Language, Theo, language,’ I chided. ‘So, Edward III was only fucking 14 when he was crowned king. Can you imagine ruling the country in two years time?’

‘Yes,’ he said, with the certainty of youth.

‘Well his dad, Edward II, was kicked off the throne for being a shit king. Eddy II was then supposedly murdered by having a red hot poker stuck up his arse in the first royal homophobic assassination. Ed III then made a lot of laws and did a lot of war. Boom.’

Theo did not seem terribly excited by my history lesson. But by now I was becoming determined to impress the grumpy little git. And what, dear reader, could be more impressive than the George Inn?

London’s last remaining galleried inn never fails to inspire awe in those above the age of 12. Southwark used to be full of them. And though the George was not the most famous or notable of them, it is clearly a survivor. There’s been a pub here since at least the 15th century. Although the current building dates back to 1677 when it was rebuilt after the Great Fire of London, I’d like to think that, similar to our churches, it retains a spirituality going back long before its most recent iteration. It has been a space to piss around in for many centuries.

I told my ward all about it, mostly gleaned from Pete Brown’s heroic pub history, Shakespeare’s Local. While Pete reports there is no actual proof that Shakey drank at the George, nor that he produced his plays in the inn’s court yard, he concluded it is highly likely. Dickens did drink here, we know. He even had his own chair, which is another reason to admire him.

The building is maintained by the National Trust, which explains why it is in such wonderful shape. It is leased to Greene King who do what they do best: Bang average pubs.

Theo reported that he’d ‘done’ Shakespeare, with a tone that suggested he’d done with him. He did reveal that he’d studied the Napoleonic Wars.

‘Why didn’t you say so?’ I said. ‘I know just the place.’

‘If it’s a pub called Lord Nelson, I’m calling Mum,’ he whined.

‘Ha! As if,’ I replied, hastily preparing Plan B.

We hopped on the Jubilee to Bar Elba, a Napoleon-themed cocktail bar on the roof of Mercury House, in Waterloo.

The several flights of stairs were a challenge, but they were punctuated by ‘facts’ from Napoleon, which I thought justified the trek. In particular, I was pleased by the made-up quote: ‘On victory, you deserve beer. On defeat, you need it.’

The bar is a delight, with loads of tables on a corner roof overlooking the beautiful south and the busy Waterloo Road.

‘It’s just a poncey cocktail bar,’ complained Theo. ‘It’s nothing to do with Napoleon or Elba.’

‘What? For a short man to have a bar at this height in the heart of Waterloo is an historical irony of hysterical proportions,’ I told him.

‘It’s not exactly Les Invalides, is it?’ he said.

‘Get you with your fancy… knowledge.’

‘Do we have to stay?’

‘Not have to, Theo. But we have just walked up a millions steps. The views, the refreshments, this is our prize for effort. You must learn that hard work should be rewarded by a treat. Let’s have a dr-. How much? £6.20 for a can of 3.8% BrewDog? Come on, we’re off.’

If you do want to enjoy this rooftop in Waterloo, I’d recommend getting there at 4pm for the 2-for-1 cocktail happy hour and leave before it gets packed with the after-work comedians.

Trudging down the stairs I reflected that we still had hours before Lucy could rescue me.

‘Well what do you like?’ I asked, in desperation, though to be fair, I maybe should have asked that in the first place.

‘Could we go see a show?’

‘A show? Hmm. There’s a Sam Shepherd on at the Vaudeville. I didn’t bring my hip flask though.’

‘I mean, like a musical.’

Oh God. A musical on a hangover. This was beyond torture. But then Google had an idea.

‘Sure, we can see a show. Hamilton is sold out, unfortunately, but…’

Back on Tube we took the Southern Line to Balham, to a bar/gallery/cinema/studio called The Exhibit that styles itself as a ‘youth club for adults’. They were putting on a Boozical – a boozy brunch followed by a screening of The Lion King in their delightful little cinema.

After I loaded up on carbs and a pint, we settled into the little sofas where I hoped to have a little snooze in the dark. I was quickly disabused of that thought when the quite giddy crowd began joining in with the songs. Even Theo was belting out I Just Can’t Wait To Be King and was in great danger of enjoying himself. I mimed, perhaps inappropriately, that I was going for a slash and sat it out on the balcony with a pint of Brixton.

‘How did you like that then?’ I asked once the joy had subsided, warming now to unclehood.

‘Seen it before,’ he said.

Lucy was very appreciative that I’d got her out of a bind though. She was able to make an important meeting and visit her hubby in hospital, who was doing much better.

Later on, my phone rang. It was Lucy. Balls. Was she going to give me a hard time about taking Theo to a pub? Two… alright, five pubs? Fuck it, look after your own brat then, I thought, as I answered.

‘Just ringing to say thanks again, Theo had such a great time. I hope it’s not cheeky but Theo really wants to hang out with you again tomorrow if you’re free?’

Which just goes to prove my old motto: If you have to do a job, do it badly.

Deserter Stories is available to order now.

I have noted previously on these pages that an unintended byproduct of abstaining from alcohol on Mondays and Tuesdays is that Wednesdays are – what’s the phrase, again? – fucking brilliant.

At around 3.55pm on these hallowed days my mind tells me that whatever it is I am doing at the computer could just as easily be done on a laptop in the glorious pub garden at the end of my road. Although, to be fair, this is not always the case.

Last week, for example, I sauntered down there to complete my final task of the day: sorting out iCloud storage so I don’t have to give anybody any more money. Hideous. I ordered a pint of Nethergate’s Hop Weaver and carried it to my usual table – number 267, site of some of the finest emails I’ve ever written. I took a long draught, breathed in the fresh autumnal air and watched the wind playing in the trees. And a funny thing happened. I no longer gave the faintest toss about my iCloud storage. Let it fill up, I thought. Let it burst, for all I care, and splatter my data all over the grid. I’m having a Wednesday.

Anyway, I’m delighted to report that the world seems to be catching on with the idea of making Wednesdays great again.

I was at the same pub (the Fox on the Hill, a Wetherspoon pub) a little while ago when I spotted Thornbridge’s Jaipur was available, a firm favourite and probably the only beer I can send a pump clip picture of to my wife and she’ll know not to expect me back any time soon. Such is its legend.

“I have to tell you that the Jaipur is priced at £3.25 and not the usual £3.01,” said the barmaid, gently, when I ordered a pint.

“Thank you,” I said, appreciating her concern. “That’ll be fine.”

She poured the pint and set it down in front of me, its foamy head releasing immediately the familiar bouquet of lemon and gooseberry.

“That’ll be £2.25, please.”

“I thought you said it was £3.25.”

“Oh, not on Ale Wednesday,” she said.

Ale Wednesday? Holy shit. Or indeed, Holy Wednesday. In Christianity, Holy Wednesday commemorates the Bargain of Judas. In Spoons it represents the Bargain of Jaipur. £2.25 a pint? I sent a pic of the pump clip to my wife.

Next on these Wednesday jaunts I might walk down into Herne Hill for a change of scene. Previously I might have taken a seat outside The Commercial opposite the railway station and watched commuters coming home for work, the poor bastards – though I appreciate they have actually been earning some money, whereas I have just been sitting on my arse, spending it. But nevertheless, poor bastards.

These days I’m more likely to be found in Bird House, the brewery and tap room on the site of the old Canopy brewery and tap. Bird House has expanded into neighbouring arches and opened up an alleyway directly into the heart of Herne Hill – in my view, the greatest thing to happen to Herne Hill since the aforementioned station (built 1862).

Here, I am delighted to report, pints are £4 all day on Wednesdays, and I can spend another happy hour with the laptop, not working. Often, Shirker’s Rest colleague Ben McNamee will join me after work and it is in fact here that we devised our brilliant and completely original idea for “Cask Wednesdays” at the pub: cask beer £4 a pint, all day. We don’t ask where these brilliant ideas come from, we just give thanks that we’re able to have them.

I’m glad that we at the Shirker’s are able to play our small part in reclaiming Wednesdays from the week’s scrapheap. Mondays remain shit, of course. Tuesdays are wankers. But Wednesdays, you wet-led wonders.

The other byproduct of drinking a bit less is productivity. Who’d have thought? And so it is that we – I and my Deserter colleague, Dirty South – have a new book out this autumn. Ten stories that ruminate on life, love, loss and laziness – and pubs, to be fair. After all, life wouldn’t be the same without pubs, or the life-affirming fluids they dispense.

As we say at Deserter: all things in moderation. Including moderation.

Deserter Stories is available to order now.

I was eating lunch when a text arrived from Half-life: ‘Fancy some anal action?’ I gagged on my sourdough and texted back, ‘Not that sort of friend’.

‘Sorry, *Canal,’ responded Half-life. And there it was. He’d made a text joke. I felt quite proud. For a man who once considered the mobile phone ‘the devil’s tracker’, useful only for creditors to locate his whereabouts, this was progress indeed. I gave him a call.

‘I’m house-sitting Cyclo’s boat,’ he told me. ‘Come up. And bring some limes.’

‘For the scurvy?’ I said.

‘For the rum,’ he said. ‘And bring some rum.’

Messing about on canals is a pleasure no longer available on the South Londoner’s doorstep, a combination of commercial imperative and lack of imagination. The Croydon Canal was done for by the rise of the steam train and closed by an Act of Parliament in 1936. The land was bought by the London and Croydon rail company who filled it in and built a railway line along its length. The old basin was turned into West Croydon station. The Grand Surrey Canal lasted much longer, only finally being filled in, in the ’70s. The Camberwell basin was turned into Burgess Park, while the Peckham basin is now the site of Peckham Pulse and Peckham Library.

North London’s waterways give me a twinge of aqua-envy whenever I encounter them: Quiet historical passages that have slipped modernity’s mind, by turns rural, residential or industrial, but always interesting. Cyclo Dunc had swapped a rented flat in Forest Hill for a narrowboat with a permanent mooring in Hackney and I leapt at the chance to spend a day on the water.

‘ETA Hackney Wick, 2pm,’ I texted Half-life.

‘Why?’ he replied. ‘At Southall. Heading for Fuller’s boozer at Greenford Bridge. Pick you up there.’ Interesting. I hadn’t realised he was taking the boat out for a spin – and a pound to a penny Cyclo knew nothing about it either.

I rode the Central Line out west and at the Black Horse, Greenford, I finished my pint of London Pride and stood out by the canal. The air, suffused with tumeric and cumin from a nearby industrial estate, was still and calm. I heard an unusual bird call, perhaps a cormorant, and I was trying to spot it when the sound of an airhorn shattered the moment. Coots and moorhens scattered for cover in the racket and I turned to see Cyclo’s narrowboat rounding the corner. Standing on the fore-end, like a ship’s figurehead, was a young woman holding a rope and a tin of beer. At the stern stood Half-life in his admiral’s hat and his mate, Yes Dom, saluting me.

‘Are you the Raider?’ said the woman as the boat approached. I nodded. ‘Here, catch!’ she said. I hoped for the beer, but I got the rope instead and after some muddle-headed mooring ring work, the boat was secured and the crew disembarked.

‘Pint?’ said Half-life.

‘Yes,’ said Yes Dom.

‘Do the honours will you, Raider?’ said Half-life, ‘I’m late for a pizza.’

‘Pizza?’

‘Being delivered to the car park.’

Refreshed and now loaded with a cargo of two 12” Meat Feasts, we cast off and headed eastward, past an aggregates site and on into open country.

My female shipmate had been introduced to me as Simone and she told me that we were on the Paddington Arm of the Grand Union Canal, the longest merged canal in the UK. It runs from London to Birmingham and was, you might say, the HS2 of its day. It is now used almost exclusively for leisure, with fun-trippers like us complemented by walkers, fisherfolk and what are known as ‘gongoozlers’ – a particular sort of idler with a special interest in watching the coming and goings of canal life, mostly with their mouth open.

Often they like to wave. As do the people on other boats. One thing I discovered when I was invited to take the helm was that you have to be prepared for an awful lot of waving. Waving is what people do, what they want. I think it’s something to do with the speed of travel. To be fair, when you’re floating past someone it’s probably odder not to acknowledge them than it is to raise a hand.

And it’s this speed that gives canals a unique feel. Travelling at three knots calms the soul. It’s a serene pace; a walking pace but without the constant clump clump of your plates of meat thumping onto the ground. Your surroundings drift away and your mind is encouraged to do likewise. Which is great unless you’re steering.

‘Mind that tree, Raider!’ said Half-life, who was rolling a bifter on the roof.

‘Shit it!’ I said, and we all had to duck out of the way of low hanging branches. I’m more of a dreamer than a helmsman, I realised. I decided to take myself off steering duty, especially with a spliff on its way round.

‘Fancy a go on the tiller, Dom?’ I said, hopefully.

‘Yes,’ said Yes Dom. Such a wonderfully amenable lad, which now I come to think about it, is probably how he got his nickname.

I was sent down to the galley to fix some mojitos and enjoyed, through the windows, the sensation of gliding across the duckweed, the aquatic plant that carpets the canals in hot weather. Being on an actual trip was more than I’d hoped for.

‘So does Cyclo know you’ve moved his boat?’ I asked Half-life, passing round the drinks.

‘Yeah, must do,’ he said. ‘It’s what they’re for, innit. I mean if you borrowed a car, you’d drive it, yeah? If you borrowed an aeroplane, you’d fly it. Stands to reason. Right, Dom?’

‘Yes,’ said Yes Dom.

After Dom had successfully navigated beneath a narrow bridge we approached a small moored cruiser with what appeared to be a garden shed attached to the back.

‘You’ll never guess who lives there,’ said Half-life.

‘Who?’ I said

‘Sammy Lee,’ said Half-life.

‘Sammy Lee, the footballer?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Lives there?’

‘Yeah. Well, not “lives”. It’s his holiday home.’ This was too much for me and I had to sit down to catch my breath between guffaws. ‘Oi, Sammy, you fat bastard!’ shouted Half-life at the boat-shed as we passed, but alas there was no response.

Somewhere near Alperton, I was having a lovely widdle into the Thetford Porta Potti 335 in the tiny toilet, or ‘head’, when Simone knocked on the door.

‘Half-life says you should come up and see this,’ she said. I emerged, blinking, at the stern, just in time to see us cross the North Circular by aqueduct, a lifetime ambition I didn’t even know I had. We flicked the V’s at six lanes of ferocious traffic from 40 feet above it. Up at the bow, Simone gave us a wave.

‘Simone seems nice,’ I said.

‘Yeah. Met her this morning,’ said Half-life.

‘This morning?’

‘Yeah. Just outside Uxbridge. She was living under a bridge. Giving her a lift to Camden.’ I watched her fiddling with what looked like a small pipe.

‘Is she smoking crack?’ I said.

‘Don’t be such a tight-arse,’ said Half-life. ‘Everyone does crack on the water.’

After Kensal Green Cemetery, a last burst of green, a small pleasure cruiser waited for us to clear Ladbroke Grove Bridge even though it looked as though they had reached it first.

‘Do narrowboats have right of way, then?’ I asked Half-life.

‘Put it this way,’ he replied, ‘When you’re made of fibreglass you don’t mess with a steel superstructure unless you’re a special kind of cunt. Morning!’ he added, with a wave, as we passed the hapless cruiser. It was five o’clock in the afternoon.

After this the banks became more built up. A terrace of Victorian houses on the Harrow Road backed directly onto the water, we passed beneath the sweeping concrete curve of the Westway, past tower blocks and new lo-rise flats at Maida Hill. Here boats were moored two deep, testimony to the amount of people deciding this life is for them. And at that moment it was difficult to think of any drawbacks.

‘Right, last one aboard does the Elsan,’ said Half-life when we’d moored at Little Venice, our final destination for the day.

‘What’s the Elsan?’ I asked and I was introduced to a drawback: The end of day slopping out.

But even disposing of Half-life’s foul excretions couldn’t detract from the splendour. At Little Venice, where the Regents Canal meets the Paddington Arm, handsome stuccoed townhouses lurked behind the mature trees that dappled sunlight onto the deck of our boat. Half-life removed the tiller handle with great ceremony and we settled down for a right good mess about.

Who could have thought it a good idea to fill in the last of South London’s canals? It turns out the culprit was the Port of London Authority, which drained and filled the Grand Surrey Canal, despite calls from some quarters for it to be re-imagined for leisure. The move was labeled by Southwark Council at the time as ‘premature and prejudicial to planning’. Looking around Little Venice now it wasn’t hard to imagine how regenerated waterways might have improved those areas they passed through.

As late as the 1960s boats would leave here for a trip over the Thames to visit the waters of Camberwell and Peckham, perhaps to marvel at South London’s coarse and drug-crazed inhabitants.

‘Right, who’s up for an anal blowback?’ said Half-life, lighting an enormous joint. Simone giggled.

‘No,’ said Yes Dom.

‘He means “canal”,’ I said.

‘I bloody don’t,’ said Half-life.

Deserter (Andrew Grumbridge & Vincent Raison) has a collection of new fiction stories coming out this autumn (Nov. 4th). If you think you might buy one, it would be enormously helpful if you pre-ordered one now: DESERTER STORIES is available to order here.

Thank you!

• Pub quiz 1: London Bridge

• Book update

• Deserter world tour

• London Brewers’ Alliance Fesitval

• Sheffield

• Japanese Punk with The Let’s Go’s

• SXSE

• Pub and beer news

• Latest from The Shirker’s Rest

• Crisp news

• Drug news

• Other news that’s not about beer, pubs, crisps or drugs

• Pub quiz 2: Bermondsey

• Readers’ Letters

• Deserter Island Crispspsps

• Potato Corner

• Bum Dosser

• The Scene of the Social Media

As local residents are well aware, Telegraph Hill is so called because it has the highest concentration of Daily Telegraph readers this side of Putney Bridge.

Having been challenged by Tim at waterintobeer to write a guide to boozing in Telegraph Hill, as penance for its absence in our book’s index, I was helpfully provided with a map. I’ll admit, I thought the locale consisted of the conservation area around the two halves of Telegraph Hill Park and the pub, The Telegraph at the Earl of Derby, squeezed between Nunhead and Brockley. Little did I know that the ward of Telegraph Hill extends into New Cross in the north and to France in the south.

But such is the nebulous business of borders. Waterintobeer for instance is in Telegraph Hill but is next to Brockley Station. Why not call it Telegraph Hill station? Or better still, waterintobeer station?

And Skehan’s is right by Nunhead station. It never occurred to me it was Telegraph Hill. Even the Earl of Derby is not sure where it is. Its old deeds reveal it was once considered Deptford. Then New Cross. Now it’s Telegraph Hill, but its website boasts that it is ‘Peckham’s Best Local’. Is it any wonder I’m confused?

Now, being a lazy person the key thing I spotted about Telegraph Hill was the word ‘Hill’. If you are going to do a pub crawl in Telegraph Hill, for gawd’s sake do it downhill. No one wants to hike up Pepys Road with the brewing might of South London swilling about their innards. No, you start at the top, work your way down and then sleep on a bench.

So, I started at waterintobeer, an establishment I’ve encountered on a few occasions before. It’s a bottle shop with a difference. It has homebrew kit, a cracking vinyl selection, plus fine draught beer. But I’ve also listened to an FA Trophy replay between Macclesfield Town and Dulwich Hamlet on the radio there; a night none of us will forget. And, I enjoyed a beer and crisp pairing evening, in which a smoky imperial stout was matched with Twiglets, and a Belgian Saison with Prawn Cocktail Skips. One of the many unique aspects of a night on Telegraph Hill.

Leaving waterintobeer, I briefly walked on St Norbert Road. And Norbert, it turns out, was a bit of a Herbert.

Born to aristocratic parents in 11th century Germany, Norbert got a cushy clerical post where his only job was to chant a set of prayers, every day. However, he couldn’t even be arsed to do that. So he paid someone a small fee to do it for him, like a proto-Deserter. He then got a second well-paid gig as religious advisor to Holy Roman Emperor and King of Germany, Henry V. So two salaries, an hour’s work a week maybe, and a life of privilege and luxury.

Then, something struck him like a lightning bolt. It was a lightning bolt. Actually it struck at his horse’s feet, throwing Nobby off. That’s definitely what happened. He was absolutely in no way drunk.

The experience changed him forever. Rather than think, life is short, I’d better get on with enjoying it, he chose a life of penance.

Norbert abstained from sensual pleasures, like lovely beer, Scotch eggs and so forth. He founded a religious order, the Premonstratensians, who took root in 12th century England, due to their catchy name and high Scrabble score. And presumably they are the reason he ended up having his own road in Telegraph Hill-slash-Brockley.

Norbert embraced an asceticism so fierce that it killed his first three disciples. But still, Nobby was alright, so, whatevs.

The Premonstratensians were devoted to chastity, poverty, obedience, detachment from the world, prayer, fasting and silence. At least I hope they were silent.

In honour of St Norbert, I abstained from booze all the way from waterintobeer to Skehan’s.

Skehan’s bills itself as ‘A melting pot in the middle of the melting pot that is London’, with some justification. On the surface it’s an everyday Irish boozer. But you don’t have to spend long in there to realise it is anything but ordinary.

The beer is only OK, but the Guinness is fine and the craic is strong, with live music four nights a week and really rather good Thai food.

On Wednesday night they host Hankdogs Easy Come Sessions – ‘London’s oldest running country night’. It was these nights, that inspired the Fat White Family, the Peckham (or is it Telegraph Hill?) band described as a ‘scuzzy mix of country, rock & roll, post-punk and nihilistic psychedelia’. A fantastic live band, Fat White Family played their first gigs at Skehan’s and still occasionally get up for a few numbers there.

I like their attitude. Guitarist Saul Adamczewski once had to come to the aid of a friend who was facing charges in a court of law. Saul told The Quietus: ‘I was supposed to be his character witness but I ended up staying up for two days and then I was too hungover to get to court.’

His mate got two months in Wandsworth. The lesson here is, if you can’t be a good mate, at least have a good time.

Next on my tour was the Golden Anchor. Landlady Lana says it’s not a Caribbean pub, it’s a pub for everyone. It is a Caribbean pub, there’s no getting away from that, but it is a Caribbean pub for everyone.

I didn’t fancy another Guinness so I thought, when in Rome – drink rum & coke.

They say that people come to the Anchor for the Caribbean food – the jerk chicken and jerk pork – and the music; reggae, Soca and Afrobeat. But it was clear to me that people came for something else. Something unspoken, something unusual. People go to the Golden Anchor because is a hotbed of… dominoes.

Every night, seven days a week, old and young gather round tables in groups of four and SLAM! They don’t just place their tiles down carefully like your auntie. They SLAM those bones. No one knows why. Some think it’s intimidation: ‘Feel the might of my double three!’

I had no idea dominoes was such a physical game. And yet, despite the racket, it really is a welcoming sort of place.

Next up was the beating heart of Peckham, The Earl of Derby.

It’s the epitome of the handsome backstreet boozer. You have to look for it as you wouldn’t stumble across it. It’s like it’s hiding. It has that nice community feel, like a library with beer. It has all the events publicans have to run to get people in to their pubs: quizzes, open mic nights etc, which I generally avoid. They give people an excuse to go to the pub. I don’t need an excuse. I need an excuse not to, and pub quizzes often provide that.

The Earl really is a beauty inside. With lovely wooden panelling and cosy seating. I love the giant map of the world dominating the wall to remind you of distant horizons – like Camberwell. The beer is good. The food looks it. And it’s the only pub to mention the Telegraph.

Telegraph Hill (formerly Plow’d Garlic Hill) refers, of course, to the semaphore telegraph station that stood where the Upper Park is now, just behind the tennis courts and where the important news of the day was received and distributed, one letter at a time. The station was removed in 1823 with the advent of Twitter.

Now the space provides a glorious spliff spot, with gorgeous views across the city. If you are going to spark up there, mind, do ensure there are no children nearby, as they will most certainly want some.

Onto The Montague Arms

Many will know it as the steampunk boozer, famous for its stuffed animals – zebra and oryx – skeletons and maritime paraphernalia. It doubled as a live music venue with extraordinary club nights and as a bizarre introduction to London for bemused coach parties arriving from the Continent.

It’s hard to follow such a legendary boozer as The Monty once was, before Stan and Bet passed away and it closed in 2012, but James, who has taken on the task, is doing his best. The taxidermy may have gone, bar one lonely animal head, but the Monty’s USP now is free games: Shuffleboard (great game), bar billiards (the king of pub games imho), table football, darts and retro arcade games, all free. Even the wifi password is freegames. Everything is free, except the beer, which is a bit pricey as it’s all keg (but all delicious as it’s mostly Fourpure).

I played bar billiards with a pal, The Clunas. I scored 420, coincidentally, but still got thrashed. I’m not sure anyone really knows the rules of bar billiards, but we played a rule called ‘The Silly Finish’ where you have to pot the final ball in the nearest hole, which is being defended by a skittle, so you have to go in off the cushion, at a sharp angle. It’s very hard. If you knock the skittle down, you lose your entire score, 900-odd in The Clunas’ case. It’s like playing football – you’re winning 18-0 and someone says, ‘Next goal wins’. Which I would like to see trialled in the Premier League much more than I would VAR.

Just down the road is The White Hart.

The White Hart was a real surprise, with two Magic Rock beers on cask, four taps from Kernel and four from Cellar Boys, both excellent Bermondsey breweries. The staff were lovely. And it’s a great spot for drinking in traffic.

This cracking boozer is currently under threat from money. Please sign their petition to keep late nights and live music in New Cross-slash-Telegraph Hill.

Monday to Thursday you can also get a £10 lunch that includes a pint, or wine. Not a pint of wine as I hoped, but you can’t have everything, for some reason. So steak, chips and a pint of cask for a tenner. Unfortunately I don’t like to eat on an empty stomach so I just had the lovely beer.

The White Hart also has a craft beer vending machine – possibly the best vending machine in the world. Perfect for when you reach that point in the evening when you can just about press buttons but are unable to string any coherent sentences together.

And they tell me they get a lot of Sunday diners down from ‘Telly Hill’. (Hang on, I thought you were in… oh forget it.)

I did finally eat though, at The Rosemary. Quite simply, the finest organic Hungarian food in Telegraph Hill.

The Rosemary also does Hungarian wine – I had a beautiful glass of red – and Hungarian craft beer. I swerved the Soproni IPA as, although it is a very old Hungarian brewery, it has been taken over by Heineken, so you’re drinking hard commerce, not love.

No, I had a beer from Mad Scientist. It doesn’t sound very Hungarian – not enough consonants. But they are the real deal. They’re Budapest craft brewers, and their Smooth Hoperator is a cracking IPA.

I ate the Gypsy roast, which is pork marinated for 2 days, with a garnish of pork. There are vegetarian options on the menu though they are mostly made of pork.

And that should have been that, but I could see a pub across the road. Across the border in New Cross ward. Don’t @ me. Was I to be dictated to by the tyranny of borders? Let me tell you, I am not that sort of mister. So the Five Bells it was.

The Five Bells famously provided the scene for the illustrator Mr Bingo’s legendary scratch-off advent calendar (see below), which gives you a flavour of the place.

Friend of Deserter, Mad Ian, calls the pub The Ringers. Mind you, he is mad. During the day, it’s old style, old skool, old fashioned. A bit Millwall on match days. It’s got a large screen for the footy and chirpy, cheeky regulars propping up the bar.

At night though, it’s something else with punky bands downstairs and arty films upstairs. Late nights, dancing and the occasional punch-up.

But most nights, it’s loud music and students rollings fags outside, talking about their feelings. The beer’s not very good, so maybe it’s not Telly Hill. And I couldn’t end the evening on a shite pint. I’m against that sort of thing.

So to the eastern end of the ward, to The Rose. Is that Telegraph Hill? I mean, it’s not like I’m gallivanting into the Occupied Territories, is it? It’s a bloody gastropub. It’s nice though. A bit posh even. The students have real fags, it has a lovely beer garden out back and decent beer to end the evening on.

By now it was time to sleep it off. If I were you, I’d book an Air BnB at the White Hart, now it’s no longer a hotel. In the morning, have your valet carry you up the hill to that wonderful community cafe, The Hill Station for a restorative breakfast – accompanied, of course, by the ubiquitous Daily Telegraph.

Deserter (Andrew Grumbridge & Vincent Raison) has a collection of new fiction stories coming out this autumn (Nov. 4th). If you think you might buy one, it would be enormously helpful if you pre-ordered one now: DESERTER STORIES is available to order here.

Thank you!

Image credit: Main image by Twinspot used under this license. Image is cropped. See the original here.

Pub quiz 1
News about our new book
A plaque for Micky
Dirty's sports weekends
Anal canal action
Canada
Pétrus
Broadstairs
Pub and Beer News
Crisp News
Other News
Pub Quiz 2
Potato Corner
Bum Dosser
Social Media Scene

‘Fancy a bugger about in Balham on Friday?’ I said to Roxy, who lives in nearby Tooting. ‘I’ve got tickets to a gig there in the evening.’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Did you know there’s a sewing machine museum up that way?’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, I’ve been meaning to go for ages.’

‘Really?’

‘No,’ she said, looking at me as if I’d peed in her Picpoul. ‘Let’s do some pubs, you berk.’

…

Friday is Roxy’s day off so I knew not to arrange to meet too early as Thursday night would surely have taken its toll. Even so, when I met her at Tooting Broadway station, well after two, she was still in need of breakfast.

‘A fry up?’ I asked.

‘In Balham? You’ll be lucky. It’s been cleansed. The last trans fats moved out five years ago.’ But we set off up the A24 towards Balham, anyway.

Readers of a certain vintage may remember Balham from the comedy sketch, Balham – Gateway to the South, which parodied the bumptious travelogues of the day:

Broad-bosomed, bold, becalmed, benign

Lies Balham, four-square on the Northern Line.

Roxy, though, a more recent model, seemed less excited by the reference than me.

‘Frank Muir? Denis Norden?’ I implored. ‘Peter Sellers?’

‘Stop saying men,’ she said.

Anyway, as Roxy pointed out, from her place Balham is, if anything, the gateway to the North, wherever that is. We soon left Tooting behind and as we passed a big construction site on Balham High Road, we came across more men.

‘’Ullo, gorgeous!’ called out a builder in a hard hat and hi-vis jacket, standing on a truck. ‘Are they sad in heaven tonight, are they?’ There was a pregnant pause before he added, ‘’Cos they’ve lost one of their angels?’

‘Thanks very much,’ I said.

‘Not you, blinkers,’ replied the brute, in what I can only assume was a reference to my prescription sunglasses.

The Bedford

‘I suppose it’s better than “show us your tits”,’ said Roxy, when we were settled into our first stop of the day, the Bedford, tucking into a late breakfast of Scotch eggs and By the Horns’ Hopadelic.

‘It’s basically the same, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘Do you think men know that no woman has ever got off with a bloke who shouted “Ullo darlin’!” at them in the street? I mean, like, ever, in the history of romance.’

‘I suspect not,’ I said.

‘Well, could you tell them?’

‘I will pass it on to all men,’ I promised

We approved of the Bedford. It’s a grand, purpose-built pub, hotel and restaurant that is also a legendary comedy and music venue.

‘Is this where the gig is?’ asked Roxy.

‘Nope.’

‘Where is it, then?’

‘It’s a surprise,’ I said. ‘You know how you love surprises?’ Roxy grimaced.

‘No flavour more divine than that of sweet surprise? Do you know who said that?’ she asked.

‘Was it no one, ever?’ I said.

‘Correct,’ she said.

We Brought Beer

In the cute little sit-in bottle shop, We Brought Beer, I spotted a collaboration between Thornbridge and Burning Sky – two favourite breweries – called Flora IPA. It clocked in at 6.5% and I only meant to order halves but the words came out wrong and we ended up with pints. Neither of us were complaining, mind.

We sat at the outside table on the end of Hildreth Street, a short pedestrianised road filled with independent eateries that colonise the pavement. It made us feel like we were on holiday, which of course, we were.

Hagen and Hyde.

Round the corner we arrived at our first of two Antic pubs of the day, the Hagen and Hyde. Once known as the Blithe Spirit (and before that, the Eclipse) this shop conversion was acquired by Antic in 2013 and is really quite splendid. It seems to get bigger the more you move around its interiors, all decorated in signature vintage Antic madness.

There was masses of beer choice and we took ours on a little tour of the back room and the outside space, and then up onto the first floor. Here, Roxy reclined full length on a generous window seat as a familiar song played over the speakers.

‘You’re Gorgeous,’ I said

‘Don’t you start,’ said Roxy.

‘No, this song. Remember? Babybird. Classic one hit wonder.’ Roxy listened for a bit.

‘Do you think whoever thought up the phrase “one hit wonder” ever came up with any other phrases?’ she asked and I put down my beer in admiration.

‘That’s it. That’s why I come out with you. I remember now.’ I said.

‘You can have that.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You are the one and only.’

The Cyclist

Across the road, Roxy was keen to try the Cyclist, a new bar that had risen from the fetid ashes of Balham’s Wetherspoon (or, rather, its Moon Under Water sister-brand). ‘Tense, hostile, sticky, dirty and dark’ ran one review of the old place, but now it was all new furniture and smart decor featuring pictures of cyclists, old and new.

‘Why is it called the Cyclist,’ Roxy enquired of a friendly bar-person as our drinks were being poured.

‘Because the owners like to cycle to work,’ she replied.

‘Oh, nice. Do you have bike stands, then?’

‘Nah, we use the Aldi.’

To be fair, the Aldi – the UK’s first Aldi Local – is only across the High Road, and we sat and gazed at it from the covered terrace, where our two halves of lager were sheltered from the light drizzle that had started to fall.

But we didn’t stay long. It was showtime.

Balham Bowls Club

‘Shall we have a J?’ said Roxy, eyeing the Waitrose car park opposite our next destination, Balham Bowls Club (BBC). ‘Look it’s even got a bit taped off for us, like a VIP area.’

‘I’d better not,’ I said.

‘Why?’ said Roxy, shooting me a worried look.

‘Because of the gig,’ I shrugged.

‘So?’

‘Well, the surprise is… I’m playing.’

‘Get out! Don’t tell me Acid Reflux is back together?’ said Roxy, referring to a doom metal band of mine from some years back. ‘Good times may come and go but we’ll always have… Acid Reflux?’

‘Even worse,’ I said.

‘There’s nothing worse than Acid Reflux, especially at night,’ said Roxy.

I steered Roxy into the glorious BBC in plenty of time for my six o’clock soundcheck and we headed for the bar. We were both drawn to Ilkley Brewery’s Mary Jane – for some reason – but it tasted faintly soapy.

‘Notes of Fairy Liquid,’ I said. ‘Or maybe shampoo.’

‘There are lots of beer shampoos, actually,’ said Roxy. ‘Have you done a review of them?’

‘I have. They all taste like shit.’

Balham Bowls Club is, as the name suggests, a former bowls club made up of several stately rooms with wonderful wooden panelling throughout. It exudes bygone grandeur.

‘It was men only, once, apparently,’ I told Roxy.

‘Bunch of monocled motherfuckers,’ she muttered. ‘No wonder the beer’s shit.’

The BBC is an early example of Antic’s commendable policy of reclaiming old buildings, often the disused premises of stuffy men’s clubs, and giving them a new lease of life as pubs, later joined by such ex-Conservative strongholds as Brixton’s Effra Social and the Catford Constitutional Club.

‘Talking of Tories, have you heard about Bee’s new, erm, line of work?’

‘She’s got a new job?’ I said.

‘Kinda. You know she split up with Roger the Tory because, well, he was too…’

‘Tory?’ I said.

‘Exactly. Well, he rang her up and said he knew it was over between them romantically but wondered whether she’d be interested in… peeing on him.’

‘What?’

‘And she said yes, but that he would need to pay her some money for that. So he offered a hundred quid and Bee said make it two and he had himself a deal. So now, she pisses on Tories.’

‘Tories?’

‘Yes, a mate of his has got involved, too. She’s raking it in. She’s gone down to two days a week at the centre. Says she’s never experienced job satisfaction like it.’

‘Christ. So-’

I had a dozen questions I wanted to ask – mostly about logistics – but at that moment Dirty South wandered into the bar.

‘Well, this is a bit of alright,’ he said, and Roxy did a double take.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

‘Well,’ he said, pointing at me, ‘we’re on in an hour.’

‘OK,’ said Roxy, folding her arms, ‘what the fuck is going on here?’

It was time to fess up. I pointed out to Roxy a Balham Literary Festival poster which advertised the fact that at 7pm, Dirty South and I were to give a talk about our book, Today South London, Tomorrow South London.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she said. ‘You mean I’ve got to listen to you two chuff on for an hour? I can get that any time. At least then I can tell you to shut up. I’m getting another drink. I’m gonna need it.’

But I’m sure she was secretly thrilled. At least, that’s what I told Dirts before he adjourned to the garden to do some vocal warm-up exercises with the aid of a fat roll-up.

Our session, upstairs in the magnificent ballroom, passed without incident. Apart, that is, from the on-stage electrical fire that Kitty, the stage manager, gamely stamped out while we remained seated in our armchairs, wafting away smoke and sipping our pints. In an emergency, it’s important to stay on-brand, we agreed.

Once we had finished our book-witterings, we took some questions from the floor. After a few minutes, Roxy put up her hand and was handed the mic.

‘I find the character of Roxy particularly well-drawn.’ she said, a glint in her eye. ‘Is she based on anyone and what’s she like in real life?’

‘Thank you for your question, young man,’ I replied. ‘Yes, indeed, she walks amongst us. What’s she like? Well, have you ever heard the expression “heaven must be missing an angel”?’

After some exhausting post-gig book-signing, our literary duties were complete and we were ready to let our beards down.

Belleville Brewery

‘Where’s the after-party?’ said Dirty South, ‘I’m gasping.’

‘Follow me,’ said Roxy, and she led us through rain-wet backstreets towards Wandsworth Common. At the station we spotted a sign for Belleville Brewery and our hearts filled with beery joy.

We paused at some bins by the railway arches for a spliff, during the rolling of which my little ball of hash was taken by the wind and dashed to the ground. Or maybe into a skip. There is something quite splendid, it occurred to me as I sparked up and tried to find it, about hunting between bins for a small ball of hash on a light industrial estate, in the drizzle, at dusk, near a brewery. I’d never felt happier, more alive.

‘Hurry up, Raider,’ said Roxy. ‘I’m dying for a pee.’

‘I’m just looking for this hash,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you piss on Dirts?’

‘What?’ said Dirty South.

‘He couldn’t afford me,’ said Roxy.

‘What?’ said Dirty South.

Ensconced downstairs in the wonderful Belleville taproom, we gazed out at the railway line and the treetops blowing in the night. Founded by ten local fathers whose children all attended nearby Belleville Primary School, the brewery and its US-influenced beers stand as a testament to the fact that there may be life after parenting, despite all evidence to the contrary. We toasted the day with schooners of their excellent Steam Lager (Roxy) and Session IPA (us).

‘So, what did you think of the show, Rox?’ I said.

‘Put it this way,’ she said, ‘I think I prefer acid reflux. And if you put that in a book, you don’t need capital letters.’

Deserter (Andrew Grumbridge & Vincent Raison) has a collection of new fiction stories coming out this autumn (Nov. 4th). If you think you might buy one, it would be enormously helpful if you pre-ordered one now: DESERTER STORIES is available to order here.

Thank you!